Rather surprisingly, the first weekend of November, one of the last that 2025 had to offer, delivered us the perfect conditions for something of a ridiculous adventure.

A friend had invited me to trek with her to a bothy which – given that tourist season was now ended and the ferry which provides a shortcut access to the wild peninsula upon which it is perched had stopped running – is rendered at this time of year as the absolute very definition of remote.

This particular bothy had occupied a space in my imagination for a long time. Positioned on a wild, north-facing beach, I’d made attempts to reach it twice before now. Both had been unsuccessful to varying degrees. This time I was determined to make it.

My friend’s plan was to hike the whole way in, skirting around the estuary usually crossed by the ferry, navigating across the rivers that feed it, and eventually winding up on the expansive moorland and out to the bothy and its wild shores. It was a bold and ambitious plan, but an exciting one. Unfortunately, I was carrying an injury which meant a whole day’s hiking with a pack on just wasn’t possible for me. So, instead, I devised my own plan.

With light winds forecast, I would paddle – with my bike on the front of my board and my kit on the back – the short distance across the estuary. Once on the peninsula, I’d reassemble my bike, attach all my kit and cycle the seven or eight miles along the track to the bothy. Or, at least, as far as I could before I needed to get off and push.

In theory, the plan was not only sound but sensible. The reality of putting that plan into action soon had me realise how deceptive theory can be. By 5am on the morning of our adventure, rushing to finish packing and make it in time for slack tide at the estuary, I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew.

I knew I could count on the water rushing in and out of the estuary at certain times of the day, and had planned all my timings as such. I also knew – from previous experiences that I did not wish to repeat – that the wind can funnel down off the enormous mountains on the North coast, and out to sea, creating anomalous wind tunnels at the estuaries. What I was less certain about was what the track would be like on the other side and whether or not my bike could actually manage it. That’s if my bike made it across the estuary at all. Because I had never actually tried paddling with my bike slung across the front of my board before. This was certainly going to be new terrain.

With time running out, I threw everything I would need into the van and set off to pick up my friend.

The sunrise over Assynt was spectacular. As the golden light broke through the mountains and lit up the flame-orange bracken, I had to remind myself that I wasn’t dreaming. The next two hours of driving could only be described through the increasing intensity of our ‘oohs’ and ‘wows’ until I eventually dropped off my friend and she set about on her hike. I was continuing on to the pier where I would prepare for my journey across the estuary. By this point, I was becoming a little nervous. Losing time for my tidal window, I hurried to inflate my paddleboard, organise my kit into drybags, and load that – and my bike – onto my estuary-crossing vessel.

I looked ridiculous. In fact, the only way for me to balance the whole thing – like a human Buckaroo – was to sit on my enormous dryback at the back of the board, while my bike occupied the front. Surrounded by kit I could barely move, but I didn’t have time to faff or overthink my decision. With the tide now turned, I launched onto the estuary and paddled… as fast as I could.

I felt so relieved to be safe on the other side. Little did I know how much would change between now and the journey back.